


This Simple Phrase

by deanicanfixthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonding, Canon Divergence AU, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Stockings, Destiel Christmas Minibang, Destiel Christmas Minibang 2015, Eavesdropping, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, Maybe some angst, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Knows, Season 11, Shipper!Sam, Worried Castiel, Worried Dean, alternative reality, canon AU, dcminibang, establishment of relationship, grumpy!dean, omg these tags are a mess, set between 11x08 and 11x09 fyi, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanicanfixthat/pseuds/deanicanfixthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his and Dean's painstaking and highly unsuccessful research into possible ways to stop the impending doom that promises to destroy the world, Sam somehow finds himself becoming festive and attempts to draw Dean into it...without luck. But, maybe all Dean needs is Cas' input and some late night talking?</p><p>For the Destiel Xmas MiniBang 2015.<br/>Prompt: Stockings (Day 8)<br/>Art by @lotrspnfangirl//@lotrspnfangirlgraphics</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Simple Phrase

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between 11x08 and 11x09 but contains no spoilers, other than an acknowledgement of the already widely-known existence of Amara, the Darkness, and Sam's visions.
> 
> [A/N: The title comes from Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song," which is included in this fic :) ]

 

Sam Winchester hums along with the trill notes that are reverberating from the record player in the corner of the library as he bumbles around from bookshelf to bookshelf.

“ _Dude. Seriously_.”

Sam glances over his shoulder at Dean’s words and his gaze falls upon an exasperated face with one eyebrow risen in question. Before the older brother lies umpteen open lore books on the table top, interspersed with cups lined with the last few drops of now-cold coffee.

Sam frowns, glancing to the side quickly before returning his gaze to his brother and, oblivious to the problem, asking, “What?”

Dean raises his right hand and gestures towards Sam. “ _You_. You’ve woken up this morning practically spewing Christmas and it’s nauseating.”

Sam smirks as he turns back to the books in his hand and begins organising them again. As he slides one back onto the bookshelf, he hums, “It is December, Dean.”

“Yeah, it’s  _winter_.”

Sam laughs once and nods, placing the final two books back. Once his palms are empty he walks over to the table and takes his seat opposite Dean. The festive song that had filled the bunker crackles to an end and the room falls silent before the next track—an instrumental one—breaks the air and plays, softly. The sound is warm as it drifts from the Stone Age record player they’d found in one of the storage rooms of the bunker earlier that year.

Sam watches as Dean eyes it from the corner of his scope of sight with a strangely sad antipathy melding his features. Then, coughing once to draw his brother’s attention back to him, Sam leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk in front of him before entwining his fingers together.

“You not feeling festive this year?” he slowly asks.

Dean’s eyebrows raise in almost disbelief. “What? With the Darkness hounding at our backs, Amara  _God knows_ where, and your…” He raises his hand again but this time turns it on himself and gestures at his own head, “…your  _visions_  kinda sending spoilers to the fact that it ain’t gonna be a very merry Christmas or happy new year? No. Funnily enough, I’m not really in the celebrating mood.”

He shakes his head and turns back to the open book in front of him, though it’s obvious he’s not reading it. His fingertips run along the edge of the page and Sam just watches him for a few seconds, waiting. Eventually Dean raises his head and looks back at his brother. His gaze flicks away for a second and he rolls his tongue over his lips—thoughts running through his mind—before he eyes Sam again and shrugs, saying, “How do you do it?”

Sam holds the gaze for a long while and neither of them say anything. But, finally, Sam shrugs and drop his head.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I just…” He looks back up—not at Dean but rather at the air around him, instead. “I woke up this morning and all I could think of was that it’s Christmas soon and, yeah, we haven’t really had many, but the ones we have had have been…good. They’ve been really good, Dean. And I…” He trails off, shrugging because he doesn’t want to say the words and verbally recognise the probable impending doom that awaits whatever path the brothers decide to take.

But Dean gets it. He doesn’t ask for more and just nods.

Sam returns the gesture and, after a few moments of silence, he says, “Sorry.”

Dean looks at him, frowning in questioning.

“I mean,” Sam continues, nodding over at the record player in explanation, “I can turn it off if you like. I don’t want to up—”

“Sammy,” Dean interjects. “No, don’t. Just because I can’t get into a festive mood doesn’t mean I have to drag you down into the skunk with me.”

Sam lets out one, small laugh and nods in thanks. With a quiet and sad voice, he replies, “And, maybe—you never know—maybe it’ll help.”

Dean opens his mouth and, though they fall silently, Sam hears the words.  _Nothing will help_.

Sam can feel his eyes turn sad against his will and he watches as Dean closes his mouth and swallows in response before nodding and saying, “Yeah, maybe.”

Dean turns back to his book as Cas walks into the library. Seeing the angel entering his line of sight, Sam waves and gives a small smile, which is swiftly—and grimly—returned.

Cas rounds the table and takes the seat next to Dean. With disappointment and mild aggravation obviously racking through him, he leans back in the chair, which he’s shifted slightly so that it’s aimed diagonally at the space between the brothers, rather than at the opposite side of the table.

“No luck?” Sam asks, referring to Cas’ attempt to look for information in the angel radio.

Cas shakes his head and sets his jaw in frustration. “No.”

“Us neither.”

Cas hums in his throat in an acknowledging response and then raises his hand to rub his temple.

Without glancing up, Dean speaks—his voice low. “We’ve been through all of it. Every single freakin’ book in this damn place. We’ve been through them time and time again and  _nothing_. Not even…not even one single freakin’ lead, or  _hint,_ or  ** _anything_**  to tell us that maybe, just maybe, we might have even a  _little bit_  of a godforsaken chance at stopping this.”

The room falls silent, albeit for the music, as neither Sam nor Cas bother to reject Dean’s full—and justified—anger.  After a few moments, Dean pushes away from the desk and leans back in his chair with force as he eyes the ceiling and, crossing his arms solidly over his chest, strongly huffs once through his nose in despair. Sam nods in empathy and drops his head as he runs his hands through his hair, his mind going through endless, useless ideas.

The heavy weight of hopelessness fills the room as the record player dims again to silence; then, the bittersweet sound of violins starts, melding the air and melting into everything in the room to become whole and full sounding. A second later, Nat King Cole’s mellow voice hums from the machine.

Sam sighs softly and pulls one of the open lore books towards him, turning his gaze to the pages and words ahead of him that, no doubt, will leave him feeling even more empty and lost. As he reaches the end of the first paragraph, Cas speaks up.

“I don’t understand.”

Sam looks up, eyeing Cas’ hands and the desk space in front of him. Finding them both empty, he frowns in confusion. “What don’t you understand?”

“This song,” Cas responds, the skin around his eyes becoming taunt in thought as he tilts his head to the side. “Why are chestnuts on an open fire something people associate with Christmas? Jesus didn’t eat chestnuts. He much preferred fried Musht.”

The statement hangs in the air for a second before Sam’s face cracks into a wide smile and he finds himself barking out a loud laugh. Without his expression dimming, he glances with disbelief at Dean—where he finds his brother looking at Cas from the corner of his eyes in complete bewilderment and with a heavy frown.

Cas looks at Sam and then glides his gaze to where he locks eyes with Dean. The latter says nothing.

“It’s a fish,” Cas explains, slowly.

Dean’s puzzlement deepens and his mouth hangs open, trying to find the right words. “Yeah, I…” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “You’re telling me Jesus is…” His eyes flick open and he turns them on Cas, “…is  _real_?”

Cas nods. “Well, to a certain extent. He isn’t exactly as the books described him. But he did exist, yes.”

Dean purses his lips in thought. “Right.”

“He’s surprisingly good at crochet too.”

Dean raises his eyebrow and shifts his gaze to look at Sam, who shrugs in humoured response. Dean looks into open space to a few seconds before he raises his left hand and runs the open palm over his face in mild, and almost doting, despair at Cas. Dropping his arm, he sits up, shakes his head, and looks back at Sam.

“I’m not sure why I’m even surprised. With everything else we’ve encountered, Jesus being real? That’s child’s play. And might actually be a bit of a relief.”

“A relief?” Cas asks and Dean turns back to face him.

He shrugs. “Yeah, y’know, that something—some _one_ —good exists, rather than the shit pile of bad we’re always meeting.”

Cas looks to the side, thinking. “I don’t know, Jesus can get very competitive when it comes to table tennis—”

“Cas—” Dean tries to interject as Sam’s laugh echoes around the room.

“And I think he hit Gabriel once when they were playing monopoly—”

“Cas, I really—”

“Granted, Gabriel was cheating and taking money from the bank—”

“ _Cas_.”

Cas raises his gaze to look back at Dean again. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I just—” Dean closes his eyes and massages his forehead with his fingertips. He eventually drops his hands, opens his eyes, and sighs, though it’s not really heartfelt. “You—wait, you said he exist _ed_ , but now you’re talking like you’re gym buddies. Is he…?” Dean gestures northward.

“He has an east-facing duplex in heaven. Quite a nice garden too.”

Dean slowly exhales a large breath as he rolls his eyes to the side. He nods and mutters, “Of course he does.”

Sam watches the exchange with a grin on his face and, when Dean finally turns back to him, the looks they trade speak louder than anything and Sam’s smile deepens.

Cas speaks again after a moment or two. “Mules, I can understand as relating. And poor general hygiene.” Sam and Dean frown at one another and the former watches as his brother snaps his head round to look at the angel before, simultaneous to Sam, the confusion melts from his face as realisation dawns.

“But Jesus never had the taste for chestnuts,” Cas continues, obliviously. “And the tree itself is only referred to in the Bible with regards to Jacob and his flocks.”

“Cas, it’s probably just because of the whole  _Westernisation of Christmas_  thing,” Sam explains. “What with winter, and snow, and Santa. Hot chestnuts are probably just a product of that.”

Cas nods slowly, thoughtfully, as his eyes search the table in front of him. He looks up. “Have you had them?”

“What, chestnuts?” Sam asks, and Cas nods.

“Yeah, we have,” Dean replies and looks at Sam with a small smile. “Dad was out on a hunt one year and so we snuck out of the hotel to go to the local Christmas market. They were selling them there.”

“I burnt my tongue,” Sam nods, with a laugh. “And Dad came back early.”

Dean grins at the memory as he shakes his head. “We got an earful when we got back to the room.”

“But then we snuck out the next day too, when he was on a supply run.”

The brothers smile at each other before Dean turns to look at Cas with his eyes soft. “Why did you want to know?”

Cas holds Dean’ gaze for a long time, before he glances at Sam, then back at Dean, and says, “What other things are there? That people attribute to Christmas.”

Sam looks towards the ceiling as he thinks. “Erm…well, there’s winter, snow, and Santa—like I said before. And everything relating to them. So…ice, and snowflakes—”

“Hot cocoa,” Dean adds. Sam lowers his gaze and nods.

“Yeah…and snowmen. Reindeers and penguins.”

“Christmas trees, open fires.”

“Christmas pudding. Stockings—”

“As in very long socks?” Cas butts in, perplexity clear on his face.

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “But you wouldn’t ever wear them. They’re oversized and Christmas themed.” He shrugs. “They’re novelty.”

Cas tilts his head to the side again and lets his lips part slightly as his brow furrows more. “Why?”

“They’re for people to put presents in, or hang on the fireplace,” Dean explains and Cas turns to him, listening. “Everyone in the family gets one.”

Cas looks down and hums in acknowledgment. “Do you have one?” he asks, raising his gaze to look at Dean.

“Me?” Dean replies, he laughs lightly, awkwardly, and turns back to the book in front of him. “No. ‘S not my kinda thing.”

Sam frowns mildly, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his mind wanders through all the times he’s seen Dean eyeing Christmas stockings in stores or on the internet, or when Sam hangs his own one up on the mantle.

As if on cue, Cas turns to Sam, “Have you got a stocking?”

Sam nods, his frown disappearing and being replaced with a small, sad smile. “Yeah. Jess and I made some together.”

Cas returns the bittersweet smile in response and Sam nods again.

“Is that customary?” Cas asks, this time gliding his gaze between the brothers, but Dean still has his head down. “For people to make stockings together?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Sam replies. “Sometimes people make them for one another, too. But people mostly just buy them at the store or somewhere like that.”

“I see,” Cas responds, followed by a thoughtful rumble in his throat, and doesn’t say anything more.

Sam smiles at him and, registering that the conversation has slowly flittered to an end, turns back to the book in front of him. After a few minutes, Sam—without moving his head in order to stay stealthy—looks up through his lashes and brow to Cas who, unsurprisingly, he finds slyly watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, his face thoughtful. Sam smirks to himself as he drops his gaze and returns to his work.

* * *

A few hours later, after dinner and more unsuccessful work, the brothers decide to call it quits for the night. Cas had left a short time earlier, motivated by some secret quest—of which Sam had an inclining to but didn’t voice.

They leave the library as it is with possibly—hopefully—helpful books lying open on the table to be read the next day.

“Tomorrow,” Sam says, as he and Dean walk side-by-side through the corridor. “We’ll find something tomorrow.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t outwardly reply, as they reach their fork in the road. After waving their  _goodnights_ , Sam heads to his bedroom and Dean to his own.

Sam flicks on the switch in his room and swiftly changes into his pyjamas. After he’s slid slippers onto his feet, he heads back out of his room and to his bathroom where he combs his hair through and then washes his face. He reaches out and picks up his toothbrush but, just before he grabs the toothpaste, he changes his mind and heads back out into the corridor, bypassing his room and heading for the kitchen. Once there, he quietly bumbles around the room with the kettle in one hand and a mug in the other.

Sam leans against the countertop and thinks as his tea slowly brews. He looks at his feet, how one lies crossed over the other, but his mind is still in the library, processing the day and all that happened and didn’t happened. Sighing and running his hands through his hair, Sam straightens up and turns back around to the work surface to finish brewing his tea.

Sam glances at the open books as he makes his way through the library on his way back to his room, but he ignores them for now. Instead, he takes a sip of his drink and, passing through the doorway, begins to head down the corridor. Over the rim of his mug, Sam eyes graze the walls and doors as he continues walking, but then a blip in normality registers in his mind and he flicks his gaze back to one particular room.

Sam curves his head round the door as he slowly nudges it open. Lit by the glow of one, sole lamp, Sam can see Cas sat on the sofa in the centre of the spare room, completely surrounded by  _Michael’s_  bags. Cas quickly looks up, panicked, as he registers Sam’s movements but then, after realising who it is, he relaxes again.

As soon as he’s inside the room, Sam turns and closes the door fully behind him before leaning against the wall next to it.

“Are you going to bed?” Cas asks, eyeing Sam’s clothes.

“Yeah, just went to get a drink.”

Cas nods. “Green tea?”

Sam lifts the mug and smirks in confirmation. “Green tea.”

Cas smiles and then looks down in dejection at the bags surrounding him—not far from how he was when Sam first peered in the room.

Sam thinks for a moment before he clears his throat. Cas’ attention, and eyes, return to him.

“Y’know…Dean was lying earlier,” Sam says, somewhat nonchalant. “When he said he didn’t like Christmas stockings.”

Cas blinks, then drops his eyes to the floor and nods slowly. Glancing back up, he says “…Thanks, Sam.”

Sam shrugs with one shoulder, raises the mug to his lips, and mutters, “No problem,” before taking a sip.

He watches as Cas pulls the bag closest onto his lap and then starts going through its contents without pulling anything out.  Smiling to himself, Sam straightens up and turns back to the door. Just as he rests his hand on the doorknob, he hesitates and looks back over at Cas.

“I was thinking of putting up the Christmas decorations tomorrow,” he says, and Cas glances up from what he’s doing. “What do you think? Then? Or the next day or…?”

Cas thinks for a second then nods. “Tomorrow would be good, I think.”

“Okay,” Sam replies and then smiles. “Glad to hear.”

Cas returns the smile with an added warmth of thanks.

“Night, Cas,” Sam nods to him as he opens the door.

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam pulls the door shut tightly as he exits the room, making sure the lamp light isn’t visible from the outside as it had been before. With his eyes soft, Sam wanders down the corridor to his room, sipping his tea.

* * *

The next morning Sam finds Dean standing in his dressing gown in the kitchen, nursing a steaming cup of coffee.

“Morning,” Sam says as he grabs a bowl, but he’s only greeted by a minuscule nod and Dean closing his eyes to take another gulp of his drink.

Sam walks over to the fridge and grabs the milk, and then the cereal from the cupboard to the right of it.

“I was thinking,” he says as he heads back over to his bowl. “We should put up the Christmas decorations today.”

With heavy eyes, Dean watches him from over the top of his mug and responds with a low, sleep-riddled voice, “Do what you want, I don’t mind.”

Sam starts pouring out his breakfast. “We could put a tree in the library.”

Dean grunts and takes another sip of coffee.

“And we could put some tinsel around the bannisters in the war room.”

Dean doesn’t even bother to respond this time.

Sam picks up his bowl and leans against the counter as he raises the first spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “Hang some stockings on the fireplace, maybe,” Sam muses before eating his cereal.

In his peripheral vision, Sam sees Dean’s head turn as he glares at him but he doesn’t react and just keeps on munching on his cereal. After about a minute, he slides his gaze to his brother where, beneath is bed-hair, Dean is looking entirely unentertained and grumpy.

Sam pulls an innocent face and shrugs. “What?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head before straightening up and walking through the door. Sam follows, smirking, as they head to the library.

* * *

A couple of hours later, and after endless frustration, Sam decides that what he and Dean need is a breather—some time away from the books to gather their thoughts and unwind their frustrations. So, walking down the bunker’s corridor, Sam heads to the spare room they use for storage. It’s musty and a bit dreary, but Sam soon flicks on the light and begins nosing around the boxes that’re piled high until he finds the ones he’s looking for. There’s only two—one containing baubles, lights, and general decorations, and the other packed tight with the plastic tree that’s lived in the bunker for so long it practically has superior ownership of it. Sam hooks the long box containing the tree into the crook of his arm and then picks up the decorations box, before heading out the room and pulling the door to with his foot.

Dean rolls his eyes as his brother enters the library.

“Sam,” he warns, but the younger Winchester just laughs and throws the boxes down at the other end of the table to the books.

“Let’s decorate.”

“Dude, no.”

“Dean, take a break. You’ve been frowning at that book for so long that you’ve basically aged a decade since this morning.”

Dean’s frown deepens, unimpressed. Then he rolls his eyes and shuts his book. Pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes, he says, “If I help you will you stop hankering on at me.”

He peers over his hand as Sam replies, “Deal.”

It doesn’t take long for them to decide where everything should go, given that there isn’t much to put up. They decide on Sam suggestions from that morning—the Christmas tree in the library, tinsel wound around the war room’s bannisters—then they hang pine swathes across the tops of the book shelves and place a snow-frosted pinecone ornament in the centre of the library table at which their books are laid.

Dean watches as Sam adjusts it, finding the right angle.

“That’s just going to get in the way,” he says with his arms crossed, though his voice is laced with thought rather that irritation.

Sam laughs, and nods as he straightens up. “Yeah, probably.”

Dean grabs the decorations box from on top of the table and heads to the tree, where he then puts the box on the floor and starts picking out baubles from it.

“I hate this thing,” he grumbles as Sam joins him. He pulls at one of the fake fronds of their plastic tree and then looks up at its height. “We’re replacing it. It’s just tacky. I wanna smell the  _fir_ , y’know?”

Sam raises his eyebrows as he smirks at his brother. Dean catches his look and shrugs, defensively.

“What?”

Sam just shakes his head, his smirk deepening. “Nothing.”

Dean huffs lightly, but returns to his decorating.

A short while later, everything is finished. Dean glances around what he can see of the bunker and, with his hands balanced on his hips, pulls a _not bad_  face as Sam dips into the decorations box one final time. He straightens up again and shakes out his stocking; glitter and dust drift away from the striped Fair Isle design. Sam clasps the stocking between his hands for a moment, slowly running his thumb-pads over the soft material as he smiles gently. Then, he clears his throat and looks up before gesturing toward the doorway with his head.

“I’m heading to the kitchen; gonna hang this up. You coming?”

Dean nods. “I’ll make lunch.”

Sam leads the way as the brothers exit the library.

As he enters the kitchen, Sam’s eyes fall upon the back of a tan trench coat and a smirks finds itself drifting back onto his lips.

“Hey Cas,” he says as he steps down into the room with Dean close behind him.

Cas instantly snaps around and shoves his hands behind his back, but not before Sam catches a glimpse of red, green, and gold.

“A…Afternoon,” Cas responds, hesitantly.

The brothers stop in front of Cas in the centre of the room, and Sam waves around the decoration that’s in his hand.

“I’ve come to put my stocking up,” he explains and Cas nods shakily, his eyes wild and flicking to Dean, who squints his eyes in perplexity and glances at Sam for explanation.

But Sam just grins and steps around Cas as he heads over to the cold, dark fireplace to hang his stocking from its mantle. Cas continues to stand rigid and look at Dean as Sam then moves over to the countertops.

Dean glances over his shoulder, then down at his clothes to check, and then finally looks back at Cas, frowning. “Cas, you alright? Have I got some tinsel stuck to me or something…?”

Sam rolls his eyes at the pair of them and turns his back as he starts getting the ingredients for lunch out of the cupboards. However, he makes sure to move somewhat quietly—keen to eavesdrop on the conversation behind him.

“Oh, um…” Cas responds to Dean’s question. “No, no. You’re fine…I just, erm…” He hums thoughtfully, though it’s undoubtedly laced with awkward worry. “I, er, have something for you.”

Dean laughs once, confused. “ _Me_? Why?”

“Erm, here…” Cas says, quietly, and Sam hears the rustle of trench coat as Cas removes his hand from behind his back.

The kitchen grows quiet, save for Sam’s movement, but even he hesitates in the silence. As the air becomes still, Sam begins to worry—worry that he’d got it all wrong. After a few more moments, Sam glances back over his shoulder.

In the centre of the kitchen, Cas and Dean stand facing one another but not looking at the other person. Instead Cas’ eyes search the floor as Dean stares at the material in his hands. His eyes are wide and his brow quivering slightly, both in embarrassment and slowly dissipating confusion. In his palms lies a bright green stocking with wobbly edges and unfinished hems. Gold glitter is still slowly tumbling down from the star-shaped patch in the top left corner of the material, underneath of which sits malformed and badly placed images of snowflakes and snowmen and Christmas trees. In the centre of the stocking, however, lies the name  _Dean_  in brazen red letters.

Dean coughs, breaking the silence and glances up just as Cas does the same. Dean’s gaze wobbles slightly and he drops it back down to the stocking. He opens his mouth but can’t find the right words and so, in the end, simply mutters, “Th…thanks, Cas,” with a small, hidden smile tugging at his lips and warming his eyes.

* * *

Around one in the morning, Sam makes the trek to the kitchen. His slippers echo dully in the corridor and then library as he wanders through the dark rooms. He scratches the back of his head as he yawns and walks the last few feet to the kitchen door however, just before he passes the threshold into the room, Sam registers the scene inside of it and pulls himself back against the corridor’s wall, right next to the kitchen’s doorway.

Making sure to not create even the smallest of sounds, Sam carefully leans forward and peers around the doorframe into the lowly lit kitchen.

In the far corner of the room, two figures sit hunched on the floor in front of a crackling fire. The embers burn gently and cast a warm light against Dean and Cas’ faces.

Through the dark, Sam can see Cas looking down into the fire and occasionally glancing at Dean, whose face is tilted up so he can run his eyes over every inch of the new stocking that hangs above their heads and sits, at home, next to Sam’s.

Sam gently pulls his head back around the doorframe and rests it against the cold corridor wall, worried that he’ll break the delicate and all too fragile atmosphere of the room if his presence becomes known. But, though he knows he should move and quietly go back to his room, Sam’s curious side piques its head in his mind and he can’t help but settle slightly because if this is it—if this is really it—Sam wanted to see. Regardless of whether anything could come of it or not, Sam just wanted to know. And so, angling himself so that, although he can’t see Dean and Cas themselves, he can watch their shadows against the far wall, Sam resolves to pause in the corridor for a little while, just in case.

As each minute ticks by and Sam patiently waits, the only sound that fills the air is the soft crackling of the fire as it swells and reaches out its arms, making the light flicker gently against the walls of the kitchen. Eventually Sam begins to wonder if he’s read the situation wrong and that Dean and Cas are simply sat by the fire together and, after another minute of peaceful silence passes by, Sam decides to just enter the kitchen and get his green tea as it doesn’t seem like anything is going to happen.

But, just before Sam pushes himself away from the wall, Dean quietly clears his throat and the younger brother halts again.

“Y’know…” Dean’s voice is low, almost inaudible, and Sam knows that it’s because he’s terrified of his words being actually heard.

Sam watches at Cas’ shadow turns its head to face Dean.

“I just wanted to say…thank you, Cas,” Dean continues. “For the stocking. I didn’t really say it right earlier, so…thank you.”

Cas’ head turns back to face the fire. “It’s fine, Dean. I wanted to do it.”

“But…” Dean hesitates. “Why?”

“You didn’t have one,” Cas states simply. “And I knew that, even though you denied it, you really did want one.” Sam drops his head slightly, his lips pulled into a tiny smile. “And,” Cas continues, “Sam said that he and Jess had made theirs and that—”

“Yeah, but that was Sam and Jess,” Dean cuts in.

Cas nods. “Yes, and we’re us.”

Dean doesn’t respond straight away and the air stills for a second. Then, he huffs a small, unbelieving laugh. He pauses again and then just finally says, “Yeah…I guess we are.”

Sam resettles himself against the wall as the conversation dims momentarily. Both of the shadows that flicker against the wall turn their heads to look up, at the stocking, once again.

After a beat of silence, Cas says, “Sorry it’s not very neat.”

Dean’s head snaps to Cas. “It’s fine, Ca—”

“The patterns I found were difficult to understand and I don’t think I did it right, or well, and—”

“Cas,  _seriously_. Shut up.” Cas turns to face Dean and neither say anything for a moment, but then, slowly, Dean’s head dips until his forehead is rested against Cas’ shoulder. His next words are muffled—spoken into the material of Cas’ coat. “I love it. Thank you.”

Cas doesn’t respond and just simply nods.

The two stay in the position for a little while—neither of them taking in the surrounds but, rather, their minds completely consumed by the other person.

Dean eventually straightens up and they stare at one another, the moment only broken by the crackle and spit of a flying ember.

Dean laughs, hesitatingly and worried, as he raises his hand to rub the back of his neck. Then, dropping his hand again, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Cas?”

Cas takes a breath, as if to speak, but he just lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Dean looks up at the empty space above them. “With everything that’s happening right now, with Amara and the Darkness, I just—”

“Dean, stop.”

Dean turns back to Cas. “You can’t ignore it.”

Cas lowers his head and nods solemnly. Then, with a hushed voice, he says, “I know. But maybe we should. Just for a little while.”

Cas looks back up at Dean and the latter eventually nods, gently. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

Dean turns back to the fire and the conversation hangs in the air for a few moments before he slowly fills his lungs and lets out long, shaky breath.

“But if…if things don’t…” Dean pauses and shakes his head. “If it doesn’t work out, y’know, everything that we’re doing. If nothing can be done and…and we’ve royally screwed up for the final time, then…” Dean shakes his head again. “Cas, you…” He stops, and then huffs. Then he turns his head to look back Cas and starts again. “I…”

The words get caught in Dean’s throat and nothing falls from his lips, but the ghost of them still ring clear in the room.

Cas nods and whispers, “I know.”

Dean returns the gesture. “’Cause I just wanted you to know.” His voice grows quiet and he shrugs. “Just in case.”

A rustle of cloth echoes gently in the room as Cas raises his hand and places it on Dean’s shoulder. A few moments pass, then Cas slowly shifts to mimic how Dean had been earlier by placing his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, next to his hand. He sighs and whispers, “I’ve always known, Dean.”

Dean nods and turns his head to the fire, which swells and brightens. “Yeah…” he replies, his words low and gentle. “And I think, somehow…I have too.”

A few minutes later, Sam pushes away from the wall and stretches slightly before quietly making his way back to his room; the image of two shadows cautiously straightening up and then finally leaning in towards each other glowing brightly in his mind.

* * *

**BONUS EPILOGUE** ~~(BECAUSE I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF)~~

Sam steps into the library early the next morning and is met with a tangible crashing noise, followed by a grunt of angry despair. Confused, Sam heads over to where Dean is sat at one of the previously empty tables, which has now become a disaster zone of glitter, glue, and felt.

Sam eyes the scene. “What the…? Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean throws down the icy blue, L-shaped material he had in his hand and grunts again in outrage. “How the hell did he make one in a  _night_?! That  _dick_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my fic for the dcminibang 2015! :)  
> Lemme know what you thought in the comments and send me some kudos-love if you liked it! <3
> 
> The tumblr post of this fic is here if you fancy reblogging it and spreading the holiday cheer ^^  
> http://deanicanfixthat.tumblr.com/post/134692184196/destiel-xmas-minibang-day-8-stockings-words-5710
> 
> And, finally, the artist I worked with on this project was the lovely @lotrspnfangirl//@lotrspnfangirlgraphics - make sure to check out her tumblr!
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> xoxo  
> Fiore


End file.
